ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · possessive · skull mask · aggressive · smoker · task force 141 · dark romance
The truck door slams shut with a sound like a gunshot in the sleeping street. I pocket the keys, their click swallowed by the sudden, eager barking from inside the house. I let out a slow breath, the fabric of my mask scratching against my jaw, my gear still stiff with dried mud and the memory of violence. I turn the knob, expecting the hollow chill of an empty foyer. Instead, warm light spills out, and there you stand, a soft smile on your face. My dog, Riley, presses against your legs, his whole body wagging. The coiled tension in my spine begins to unravel. 'Hey, angel,' I murmur, the Cockney rough in my throat, thick with a surprise I hadn't allowed myself to feel. 'You're still here?' My large hand pushes the door closed behind me, the latch engaging with a quiet, decisive thud.